Dear Carolyn,
My name is Jeff. I don’t think you know me. Certainly, I have no idea how you got my phone number. You might have misdialed, Carolyn. Someone might have even given you the number in error. Whatever the genesis of the misunderstanding that occurred between us last night, Carolyn, I want you to know that I think you’re a bit of a psycho and that I strongly urge you to seek help.
You see, Carolyn, during the period between 1:08AM and 1:36AM, you called me nine times. Nine times, which is the number of times Fifty Cent was shot. Do you remember hearing that Fifty Cent was shot nine times and not only survived but fully recovered? Do you remember how incredulous you were at the stunning overkill insinuated by that two-word phrase: “Nine Times.” You can hear the capital letter suggest themselves as they roll trippingly off the tongue. Do anything nine times in a row and an unbiased observer will tell you that it’s a bit of overkill. Do anything nine times in the span of twenty-eight minutes and you’re bound to end up hospitalized in a fair number of plausible scenarios.
Strange phone calls in the middle of the night from strange phone numbers? It’s not a bad start, Carolyn, but then you left me two voicemails. In those messages, Carolyn, you do not speak; you merely breathe heavily, perhaps trying to suss out why whoever you were calling has changed his or her name to Jeff. Or maybe you were calling a different Jeff; it’s not an uncommon name. It is, I can tell, a Herculean task on your part. You did, after all, leave two messages, Carolyn.
Finally, Carolyn, you sent me a text message at 1:41AM. In it, you tell me:
Its Carolyn I’m suprising shawn so can u open the door for me lol
You should know that I don’t know who Shawn is. I didn’t consciously lock you out of wherever you were. But maybe, if I did know you, I would have, Carolyn. I don’t think I like you much, and not just because you called nine times and left two voice messages in the span of twenty-eight minutes. That “lol” is obviously forced, a mask for the furious rage I imagine you feeling just then, standing outside Shawn’s door and waiting, wistfully, for the door to open. The door that would never open, Carolyn, because my phone was in my jacket pocket, sound off, while I lounged on a couch watching Sex and the City with my significant other. It was a scene that was perhaps similar to one you wish you could stage with Shawn, him cuddled up next to you on a sofa, you huddling close for warmth against the cruel and snowy night outside.
I have to tell you, Carolyn: even if I knew Shawn, I don’t think I’d open the door. The nine calls, the heavy-breathing voicemail, they wouldn’t have put me at ease. It reminds me, Carolyn, of a movie. A movie called The Strangers. You remember Ben Covington from Felicity, Carolyn? Well, in The Strangers, Ben Covington gets brutally killed because he answers the door in the middle of the night. Unlike Ben Covington, I’m not dumb enough to choose the psycho on the porch over an attractive brunette. I’m of course taking it for granted, Carolyn, that you aren’t a brunette and that Shawn has a porch. But my argument stands.
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There are days when your brand of ridiculous makes the whole world a better place.
Isn’t nine times also the number of days Ferris Bueller was absent?
And why do I think that somewhere, somehow on the Internets, Carolyn is blogging about her a-hole friend Jess not answering their phone, responding to a text, or letting them in.
IT WAS ME